A woman is standingwith her back to the sealegs planted firmly in the sandshouting at the top of her voice

it didn't have to be the seait could just as easily have beena field of sunflowers, a stand of golden larchesor even a freeway overpass.

she's shouting in a languagei can't understand a word ofthough it might possibly be Dutchit could just as easily beRussian, Czech, Finnish or even Norwegian

the man is standing rather impassivelyunder a thatch of tall whisperingcoconut palms nursing a small baby

it didn't have to be a babyhe could just as easily have been nursinga stubby of beer, a tall glass of red wineor even a baseball bat.

by her gestures i guess she's telling himthat he doesn't love her anymorethat she can tell by the way he looks at heror doesn’t look at herthat he’d rather be with someone elselike the woman who sat opposite themat dinner last nightor someone else, someoneimaginary.

though it didn't have to be that storyit could just have easily beenone of a dozen differentstories that added up to oneand the same thing.

People are planting gardens in their mindsbecause they've run out of roomin their apartmentsbecause the sun don't reach this far downthrough concrete canyons, becausethe only dirt they've gotis what's under their fingertipsfrom the grit and grime of city streets

People are planting gardens in their mindsunder chopstick thin neonunder the lazy thwap thwap of ceiling fansunder the intermittent drip drop drip of air conditionersunder the patient hands of teachersthey are threading seeds into furrowed browsthey are plantinggardens in their minds.